Photographs
by Pointless Things
Summary: Sybil is tasked with the care of a dying patient and must come to terms with her relationship with her father and mother. (Honestly, what have I done?) COMPLETE


Forgive me since it's been so long since my last update/story.

I'm also severely jet lagged and I can't sleep, so this has almost no editing done. Wow. I'm not sure if the story makes sense, but here we go!

And I'm sorry in advance.

o o o

Sybil picked her head up from the edge of the bed. The bones in her body ached. She had fallen asleep on the bed, still sitting in the chair. She rubbed her eyes and blinked. The foul stench of unwashed, soiled sheets clung to her skin like a babe to its mother. The last thing she remembered was holding his hand, comforting him in the last hours of life. The sun was still high in the sky.

'Damn it,' she thought as she watched the sky redden as dusk began to settle.

She hadn't slept in days, but couldn't feel the fatigue. All her energy was spent on taking care of him, but she knew he wouldn't last much longer. For all her medical knowledge and training, it would not stop the inevitability of death. She prayed that he would stay for a little longer, but he was tired.

Weeks ago, she knew. His condition was deteriorating rapidly and he was rushed to the hospital.

" _I want to go home."_

She could never forget the scratchy howl of his voice echoing though the ward as they hauled him into his hospital room. Over and over again, day and night, the phrase was the only thing he would utter. She couldn't bear to see him like this.

She cried in the hallway so he wouldn't see.

The diagnosis from the doctor finally came. Organ failure due to old age. No medicine could cure him. The only thing left was to wait.

She finally honored her father's request and took him home.

As the room reddened, she checked him.

Heart rate: 71 bpm  
Respiratory rate: 30 b/m  
Body temperature: 98°F  
Blood pressure: 160/80

She wiped the bit of sweat from his forehead as he continued sleeping and stared at him. She recognized the man in front of her as her father, but she did not know him any more. Her jaw tensed in anger.

Charismatic, vibrant, handsome, and strong: that was the man she knew. She remembered his laugh, the way his eyes crinkled around the corners when he smiled. The way he would iron and fold his shirts a certain way, not to get wrinkles on the front. Her father was a fighter.

The sallow, hollow cheeked man laying in front of her was a weak shell of the once man her father once was. He begged to go. Who was this man?

Unable to look at him anymore, she stood up and paced the room.

'I don't know how much time I have with Daddy. Why am I angry?'

She stopped and her lips pressed together, forcing her tears back. She shook her head, upset that she was angry at her father. She let out a sob; the tears started to flow freely.

No, she was angry that death would claim her only parent.

As a nurse, she had seen many families lose a loved one. It occurred to her the last time she visited England. Her father wouldn't be there forever. That was over fifteen years ago, when she was still young and thought herself to be invincible. She found herself once again sitting on the chair next to her dying father and wept.

Only once had she seen her father in a state as she was now. She was still very young. One of her teachers had taken a liking to her father. The teacher would drop her off at home and they would talk and have tea. They spent a lot of time together and Sybil thought they were a good match. One day, the teacher stopped coming over.

" _Daddy, what happened to Miss Kelly? She doesn't walk me home anymore. I liked her," she chatted as she whirled around the kitchen, planting a kiss on her father's cheek as he sat at the table, papers scattered everywhere._

" _We decided it was best to be friends."_

 _She stamped her foot._

" _But Daddy, everyone at school has a ma-"_

Never would she try to utter those words she had that afternoon again.

" _Sybil. Upstairs. Now."_

 _Without a word, she skulked upstairs and barred herself in her room until dinner._

Her memory of that night was as clear as if it happened yesterday.

 _He moved quickly around the kitchen, making sure that she didn't have a clear look at his face. As he set the plate in front of her, she saw the tell-tale redness around his eyes, the occasional sniffle, and his runny nose. He sat next to her at the table, but not once did she look up at his face. As she prepared for bed, she passed her father's room. The door was slightly open. He was sitting on the opposite side of his bed, his back turned to the door. She could hear the heavy sobs as he covered his mouth as he stared at the picture. She gently knocked on the door. He quickly wiped his face, set the picture on the nightstand, and turned to her. He could no longer hide his grief behind the bittersweet smile . She ran to him and wrapped her arms around him tightly as he embraced his little girl back. She tasted the saltiness of his face as she kissed his cheek._

 _The soft smell of lilacs induced both into a comforting sleep._

She never brought the subject up again.

Her hand brushed the nightstand. She felt a strange that energy emanated from inside, calling her to open it. She knew not to, but her intuition told her something else important was inside and she needed to see it.

Daddy's two most loved possessions were locked inside: An old picture of Mamma and her claddah ring.

He wore the key around his neck. It never left him.

She reached over at her father and saw the rusting chain in the light of the sunset. She took the chain in both hands and pulled in opposite directions. The chain snapped, releasing the key.

Sybil trembled. A sense of dread washed over her. She felt a tingle up her spine as she broke out in a cold sweat. Death was fast approaching.

She inserted the key and turned it. The lock clicked quietly, allowing Sybil access.

She opened the drawer…

Empty.

No ring. No picture.

She sat in disbelief, disappointed that she didn't find anything. She hung her head and closed her eyes, feeling foolish.

'He must have moved them,' she thought.

As she was about to close the drawer, she could smell the soft smell of lilacs wafting though the air. It was the same one from her child hood. She savored the scent for a moment and turned around to the window. The sunlight streaming through the window suddenly brightened, blinding her and filling her with an immense warmth.

As the light dimmed enough for her to see, she saw she was still in the same room, but it was much newer and cleaner.

Sybil made out two silhouettes sitting at the foot of the bed, talking quietly and laughing. As her eyes adjusted to her new surroundings the figures became solid. She recognized the first figure as her father by his profile, sitting on his side of the bed. He was much younger, no wrinkles, broad shoulders, and a full head of Branson-clan brown hair. The same hair she had inherited. He was oddly wearing his old chauffeur's livery. She always saw the jacket in the closet, but he never wore it.

Her eyes shifted to the figure beside him. The woman stopped talking to her father and turned to look at Sybil. The woman smiled lovingly at her and Sybil's heart stopped.

Mamma.

Her mother turned back and stood up, smoothing out her blue skirt. Her hat perfectly tilted to the side. The traveling coat matched perfectly with the skirt. She gracefully walked to Sybil. Fair skin, dark wavy hair, ice blue eyes and impeccable posture. Mamma was much more striking in person than in the picture. Her mother appeared much younger than Sybil and saw the resemblance between them.

All Sybil's life, she felt disconnected to her mother. But as she stood in front of her, as clear as day, Sybil realized she knew her all her life.

Sybil stood up, hoping the shaking from her knees would stop.

As Mamma stepped forward, she opened her arms and welcomed Sybil in.

"My darling girl."

Her mother was warm. She had felt this embrace before, many times before. Sybil started to cry.

Mamma stepped back to look at Sybil's face. She placed a hand on Sybil's face, the warmth diffusing throughout her entire being.

"My beautiful daughter," she said with a smile, "I've waited so long for you to meet me so I can tell you how proud I am of you and how much I love you darling."

Sybil started to cry.

"Thank you for keeping Tom safe. He can be dramatic sometimes."

Sybil snorted a laugh though her tears as her mother pursed her lips to keep a laugh from escaping.

Daddy walked up to the laughing pair. He rubbed Sybil's back and kissed her temple. The tenor timbre of his Irish brogue broke the moment.

"Sybbie. It's time for me to go."

Sybil grit her teeth and nodded. The tears were threatening to escape, but she kept them at bay as she fiercely hugged her father and mother for the last time.

The pair walked to the window as the light slowly brightened around them, slowly engulfing them in the brilliance.

"But why the livery?" her father asked.

"Do you remember York?" her mother asked.

Her father's voice was the last thing she heard.

"I believe this is yours."

They smiled at each other as her father slid a ring on her mother's finger as the brightness became overwhelming.

. . .

Sybil woke up with a start.

She was back in her room and the light of dawn streamed though her window.

Her husband, Connor, explained that she had fallen asleep from exhaustion in her father's bedroom.

Tom Branson had passed during the night.

Still groggy from sleep, she rushed into her parent's bedroom, but found that her father's body was no longer there. Regret swelled inside. She never said goodbye. She turned to leave the room and a reflection of light caught the corner of her eye.

On the nightstand sat the key.

She approached cautiously and lifted it.

Sybil turned the lock in the drawer and it unlocked once more.

She pulled drawer and inside laid a single newly printed photograph, face down.

Sybil picked up the photograph, turned it over…

And smiled.


End file.
